Early morning risers,

Rise before the sun.

Hurry to get ready,

To the car they run.



Their tired morning faces,

Barely see the road.

They journey to the wild,

to the wet and cold.



Gather the equipment,

don't forget the guide.

They now begin their hunt,

with Peterson close beside.



They travel cross the meadows,

through the towering trees,

sprinting past the spruce,

wading in grass seas.



Now they are still and listen,

waiting for a sound.

Then follow it they will,

to see what they have found.



They are hunting warblers,

a ferocious, flying foe.

They see the perfect spot,

and that is where they go.



As they creep still closer,

the field becomes alive.

Out of the grass shoot the warblers,

and far away they dive.



But the birds are not so fast,

the hunters spot a few;

Pine, Hooded, Magnolia, and Palm,

just before they flew.



They continue on like this,

until the sun's first ray.

Now it is the end,

of another successful day.